


Do Right By Him

by Squidink



Category: Watchmen (Comic), Watchmen - All Media Types
Genre: Child Abuse, Gen, Pre-Canon, Prostitution, Verbal Abuse, pre-watchmen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-04-03
Updated: 2009-04-03
Packaged: 2017-12-10 21:20:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/790285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Squidink/pseuds/Squidink
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The world turns, the baby squalls, and, just before the morphine and scopolamine drags Sylvia Kovacs down into a blissful oblivion free of aches and pains and a life that has never failed to disappoint, she thinks, I can do right by him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Do Right By Him

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger warnings: child abuse, prostitution (non-explicit). Sylvia Kovacs has poor coping skills.

A woman is giving birth.

This, by itself, is not an uncommon or particularly remarkable event.   As far as the world is concerned, it is as bland as any other ordinary chain reaction.  She has conceived, carried, and delivered;  it is a cycle, old and familiar in its way.   No, there is nothing remarkable in this.

Sylvia Kovacs has given birth, and this implication, this setting of events into motion, is not an important act in the eyes of the _universe_ – but enough of one to warrant mention.  The world turns, the baby squalls, and, just before the morphine and scopolamine drags her down into a blissful oblivion free of aches and pains and a life that has never failed to disappoint, she thinks, _I can do right by him_.

I can do right by him.

 

\--

 

She tries, by God. She tries for the first week.  But he just keeps _crying_ , no matter what she does, and no quantity of government checks and pitying strangers with loose change will make her want to pick him up anymore.  Nothing can make this worth it.   All those pictures of those happy mothers and their smiling brats – no one said it would be this hard!  They said it would come _natural_ to her, at the clinic, as the doctor chidingly convinced her to keep it, because, because—goddamn, she couldn't even remember the stupid goddamn reason and if he would just stop _screaming_ for one—

"Shut up, shut up _, shut up_ ," Sylvia howls right alongside him, banging her fists against the sputtering stovetop.  She's on the edge of hysterics; she knows she is, she just can't deal with this. "I'm _trying_ , you little fuck!" But instead of stopping that horrible noise, her plea only seems to encourage it and the shrieks double in volume.  He reaches his grubby, tiny little hands up and bawls, face screwed up tight and freckles lost in the red flush of effort. "J-Jesus, just leave me alone! You just, you just leave me alone!" She knocks the bottle from the counter and storms from the room, desperately rooting for her cigarettes.

Sylvia puffs them hard and fast, almost gagging, burning through the pack without tasting them and by the sixth the screams have trailed off to sobs and soft, cooing hiccoughs.  She closes her eyes, relieved, and rubs her forehead.

Fucking hell.  She didn't know what she had been getting into.

"Too fucking late now," she mutters around the filter, and crosses her legs.  Just a couple more drags and she'll run in to finish off the bottle.  Just her luck, having to deal with the expense of formula, over everything else.  Hardly even worth it, not that she'd ever let that _thing_ suckle. She'd seen other working girl’s tits, all chewed up by brats.  Not her.  Never her.

Reaching the end of the pack, she snuffs out the last cigarette and at last trudges back to the kitchen. The burner is a bright orange in the darkness, and the baby is quiet, for once, incredibly quiet.

She hefts him up and deposits him in the secondhand crib she had managed to scrounge up.  He whimpers and turns his head toward her hand, fingers clenching at nothing.  Sylvia rolls her eyes, and tugs the blanket up, grateful beyond measure for the reprieve.

Back in the kitchen she sits at the table, running her fingers over her lighter. He cries, briefly, sometime later, yowling out into the empty bedroom. Again, much sooner this time, the sound winds down, echoes pathetically against the thin walls. Eventually the screaming ceases entirely.

And, as she lies down on the ratty couch, she can't help but think it's the best night's sleep she's had in a long time.

 

\--

 

"You haven't tried to find reasonable work. Don't you have some applications, something to show me?"

Sylvia dandles the baby on her knee, bouncing a little harder than strictly necessary, trying to draw the social worker's eyes to the infant. "I need the money.  Please.  I'll turn in some applications, but right now, I just can't, I just need some money…"

"No, I'm sorry.  Bring me some proof of applications, something to go on."

"Can't you give me anything?"

"Nothing more than what you're already getting.  Listen, honey, I know it's gotta be tough for a woman in your… situation.  But get a job.  A _real_ job." The social worker reaches across the table, as if she would take Sylvia's hand, a sympathetic half-smile on her lips. "For your baby."

"Sure," Sylvia says, and squeezes his little shoulders maybe just a little too hard.

 

\--

 

"You fucking _bitch_ ," the john is bellowing, hand already raised.  Sylvia draws her arms back to shove him again, and his palm descends, striking openly across her face, sending her tumbling to the floor.  His other hand is struggling with his pants, trying to get the button through the hole with one hand and he swears angrily when he fumbles.

Sylvia cradles her burning cheek, rolling onto her elbows to scream, "Get out! Get the fuck out or I'll call the cops! You can't treat me like this, you motherfucker!" and kicking at his knees.

"Can treat you any damn way I want," the john hollers right back, wiping his mouth on his arm and only managing to spread the lipstick more thoroughly about his face. "Goddamn whore."

"Get out!"

He staggers out the door, tossing a couple bills over his shoulder, still fiddling with his belt.  She screams again, throws whatever's near at hand – a shoe, an empty vase, an ashtray – before pounding on the ground with her fists. Damn him — _damn it_!   She sobs out a trembling litany of insults and gibberish at the half-open door, pretending not to notice the neighbors’ heads poking out to stare at her disapprovingly. "Motherfucker, I'll kill him, goddamn it I'm gonna kill him, fuck, _fuck_ , I don't fucking… fucking shit-head."

From down the hall, a door creaks slowly open.  She sees a shock of red hair – just like the bastard that landed her there in the first place – and a pair of muddy brown eyes, and a smattering of freckles. "Mom…?" he asks, knuckles white as he clutches the frame.  He studies the red mark on her cheek from half behind the door, scrutinizing her, _judging_ her. "Are you okay?"

“Of course not,” she spits.  Her face is hot with rage and embarrassment and her cheek stings.  She kicks the door closed with her heel and levers herself up to sit against the wall, splay legged.   Walter looks away briefly, then shyly meets her eyes, his little mouth turning down.

"Come here," she demands, waving imperiously. "Come here, Walt, honey."

Cautiously, he edges out into the hall, comes to stand beside her in a threadbare t-shirt that passes as pajamas.  He opens and closes his fists, chews his lip thoughtfully as he watches the bloom of red-pink spread across her skin, so striking against her cheek.  From this close, the odor of sweat and cheap cigarettes and musk are overwhelming.

"Sit with me," she says, oddly calm, like she never is. He complies, grateful, if tentative, at this seldom offered reprieve as she sets her arm around his shoulders.  Almost absently, she toys with his hair, her long, uneven nails catching in the curls. "You're mommy's little boy. You'd never hurt mommy, Walter." It's not a question.

"No," he whispers, fervent in light of this rare display of affection, all past wrongs immediately forgiven with the absolute conviction of the very young. "Never."

"Good, that's good." She sighs, and lifts her arm away. He does not lean after it. "Get me my smokes.  And put the cash in the jar."

 

\--

 

The water runs cold, most days, and it freezes entirely in the winter. Still, it's no excuse, and it's long passed the time for the weekly bath.

"Get in the tub, Walter."

He stares at her, wide-eyed but silent, before dropping his gaze to the metal basin that passes as a washing facility (and occasionally as a sink, washer, and hiding spot).  It's cold outside; October is half over, and the thin walls do little to keep in heat, and less to stop the chill from edging in through the cracks.  His toes curl, catching on the uneven linoleum. "But…"

"Get in the tub!"

He flinches, edges toward her.  She rolls her eyes and seizes his arm with one hand, dragging him the rest of the way.  The cigarette swivels in her mouth, and she hauls him up, dumping him in the water without ceremony or particular regard.  He howls as he hits it, head dunking under and popping back up a second later.  He's already shaking, but he doesn't try to lunge out as she sets one hand on his shoulder, the other reaching for the soap.  It's the only motherly act she insists on.

She scrubs too hard, too raw, and the washcloth abrades his skin.  Ashes begin dribble from her cigarette to land in the water around him, over him.  As she works, she swears under her breath. "Goddamn, would it kill you to just stay clear of the dirt? Just for a week? I put food in your mouth, a roof over your head, can't you be grateful?  Would that be so hard?  Dunk."  He complies, sputtering from the shock as he comes back up. "Slow little bastard…" She runs a hand through his raggedy hair.  It’s a meaningless gesture in the purest sense, but that doesn't stop it from meaning something to him.

Sylvia eyes him speculatively. "Alright, out."

He scurries to comply, half-tumbling out of the water and ducking for the towel to swipe off the water as quickly as possible and rub some feeling back into his skin. He looks over his shoulder but she's already left, sweeping back into the hall with her bathrobe fluttering behind her.

He's always filthy, it seems, all the time; the water itself is dirty.

And it's always cold.

 

\--

 

"Don't you lie to me!  Don't you fucking lie to me!" She shakes him by the arms, and his eyes are glued to hers, wide and startled and he cringes but it doesn't stop her.  It never does.

"I'm not, I'm _not_!" he wails, arching away like an alley cat but not necessarily fighting back – would never think to fight back. "Mom, please, I'm not!"

"Then where's the money, Walter? Where?"

"I- I don't know, you took it last night," he stammers, trembling. "I don't _know_!"

Sylvia goes stiff, fingers clenching as the memories filter back in.  Fuck.  The bar.  Fuck!  She thought she would get more clientele there, but then she had gotten a drink and one had turned to two turned to five… Stupid, stupid, _stupid_ —and she's saying it out loud, has Walter by the hair, tugging that incriminating red mop hard as she can.  He cries, but doesn’t try to twist free. "Stupid! So goddamn stupid!" 

It's cathartic, and she doesn't stop for a long time.

 

\--

 

She's quiet, today, relaxed, but he is still wary as he approaches; her moods can shift in a moment, and it seems she triggers more often these days. Sylvia presses the wad of bills into his palm, puffing out her every breath with a cloud of trailing smoke.  "Go out and get me some rubbers, Walter."

His fist closes over the crumpled dollars, and he can feel all the dirt and grime and filth that's worked into it, deep enough to be woven into the very fibers, but he nods solemnly anyways, and slips out the door.  It's a long walk in worn out shoes, and an embarrassing journey to be on, but he is an obedient son despite it all.

Up the street there are two older boys, smoking and talking. He wonders if he can slip by them unnoticed.

He thinks he can.

**Author's Note:**

> Criticism welcomed.


End file.
